The Kingdom of Ends
by Dorian Gray
Summary: Tsuzuki is having a rough couple of weeks.


Standard Disclaimer: Yami no Matsuei © Matsuhita Youko, Central Park Media, et al.

Rating: PG (Mature themes)

Summary: Tsuzuki is having a rough couple of weeks.

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    The Kingdom of Ends
**    By Dorian Gray (hinikunokotsuzui@yahoo.com)
_

Therefore, every rational being must act as though he were a member in the kingdom of ends. -- 

_Fundamental Principles of the Metaphysics of Morals_, Kant _ __

    Live for me . . . please . . . 

Tsuzuki had an old straight edge razor. He'd had it for years. Every now and then he'd use it. Didn't work as well as a disposable, but nostalgia was worth two nicks and a rough shave. 

Maybe he was feeling nostalgic this morning as he opened the mirrored medicine cabinet above his sink and pulled the relic out, blew the dust off. Been awhile. 

Tsuzuki watched himself shave in the mirror. Watched the shaving cream go down the drain. Wash away. The sound of water in his ears. 

_    

Don't panic. Don't panic. It'll be fine, see? Hisoka? . . . You hear me?. . . Hisoka!

_

He spent fifteen minutes staring at the yellow stain that ran down from the faucet to the bottom of the bowl. Doesn't know why.

Gradually the bedroom's around him again. A bar of light makes it through the divide in the curtains. Cuts across the room. Bisects the bed. The twisted sheets. Didn't sleep last night. Doesn't matter. You don't need to. You never did.

He pulled on yesterday's wrinkled suit. Nothing else clean. Grabbed a quick bite on the way in. Chewed. Swallowed. Knows he's late. Doesn't care. No one bothers him about it anymore. 

Pink trees melt into the front steps, the front door, the hallway. Slow steps, his. -- No reason to hurry. And you were never very eager, were you? The sort that needs a babysitter, someone once said. Someone . . .

Tsuzuki went to his office. It's policy not to put names on the doors. Just as well. You know what's coming. They told you -- no use dwelling, they said. It's for your own good. That thought kept you up all night.

They used to say more, at first. Lots of words.

The door opened. 

It's still unexpected. The one desk. 

Tsuzuki spent a good deal of the morning there in the hallway, hand on the door knob. If people saw him, they didn't say anything. 

Sooner or later he took those thirteen steps. Sat in his broken-down chair. Surveyed. Nothing. Big half of the room empty. Still. No sound. No movement. Sunlight made a tilted rectangle on the floor. It framed the scratches left by that rolling chair with the bad springs. He still hears the absence of that distinctive pattern of squeaks, that pattern of breathing, those little inconsequential noises.

He tapped a pencil on the worn blotter. Kept it up for an hour. Would keep it up all day if necessary. 

__

    You're gonna be all right. Come on. Say something. Come on, this isn't funny.

Noonish. Nothing to do. They don't give him many cases. Enough to keep him on the payroll, that's all. One and two-dayers. Suicide spirits and the like. Kiddy stuff. Nothing messy. Nothing dangerous. Just like they thought that last case would be when --

Coffee. He wanted some coffee. The room flowed around him. He was in the hallway when it happened again. Been happening more and more lately. Couldn't say what it was, but out of nowhere he felt like laughing -- nothing's funny, but all of a sudden you find yourself doubled-over with one hand over your mouth trying to keep all the laughter inside. Too much laughter and no joke. Don't know why.

Just as quickly it's gone and he was standing in the break room holding an empty Styrofoam cup. That's right, coffee. Pour, sugar, cream, stir, that short walk back to his office. Empty. Don't think about it. You'll go mad.

__

    Oh god, Hisoka! -- No, don't you leave me -- don't you dare . . .

He was in the office again. With the one desk. With the sunlight and the scratches and the silence. Someone had come and gone. Left a folder. After about an hour of staring at the wall he flips it open. Hashigawa Mimiko. Age 29. Hung herself with a prison bed sheet. Had been charged with the murder of her lover. Felt so guilty she was haunting his grave. There was a photo. She'd been cut down. Lay on her side. The blood -- 

__

    covered everything -- the floor, walls . . .

-- there wasn't much of it. All in all, a neat end. Just one little pool by her mouth. Must have bitten her tongue. 

__

    Breathe -- heal -- come on . . . you've had worse . . . come on . . . hang in there . . .

Report said he was suppose to leave tomorrow morning. There was a hotel room reserved for that next night. Single occupancy. Everything was in order and there was nothing for him to do here. So he decided he might as well go home. He passed some people on his way out. The old nod and smile. Everyone had been quiet lately. More quiet than usual. With those same sympathetic stares. Like they felt sorry for him. But you can fool others. You can't fool yourself. He knew the truth: it was his fault. His. He did it. _Didn't mean to but I did and I'm sorry. I deserve this._ -- The front door came and went. -- _I deserve everything. Stupid. Worthless._ -- The pink trees flowed around him. -- _You should have done something. Murderer. Killer_ -- One block -- _it should have been you._ -- The second block slid by _-- But you can't forget. I won't let you. I'll never let you forget. _-- Another door came up before him. His door. He went through it.

Tsuzuki's home before he knows it. He takes off his shoes. Goes to the kitchen. Takes out all the alcohol he can find. Drinks until he can't feel anything. Drinks some more. 

__

    Where? Where'd he go? How the hell did they get separated? He needed to find him. There was something dangerous here. Hisoka . . . 

Four hours later he wakes up. There's a bad taste in his mouth. He rises out one of the dirty cups in the sink. The sound of water in his ears. 

__

    The brick building looked normal enough, old and unlit, indistinct in the misty rain. The telephone lines were humming. Just a quick casing for clues, anything to give them a decent lead. They'd be back in time for the dinner special.

All of a sudden there's a broken glass in the sink. Another. A third. The fridge was humming. Nothing to eat inside. Mostly he doesn't bother anymore. After all, it's not like he really needs to eat. He never did. There's nothing to do, so he drinks everything that's left and goes to bed. Maybe he falls asleep. Maybe he passes out.

__

    It was suppose to be an easy case, open and shut. It was suppose to be . . .

Tomorrow rolls around. 

Light comes through the slit between the curtains. Wakes him. His mouth still tastes bad. His head still hurts. 

But he got up anyway, yawned and stretched, walked to the eastern window and pulled the curtains open. Lovely day, really. Hands grasping onto the curtains, holding them open, he stood and looked out. The sun had already risen. Leaves backlit by sunlight. Blue sky. He needed to water again, even the shaded impatience were wilting. Needed to weed. Needed to pack. So much to do. 

Deliberately he closed the curtains and disappears into the bathroom. He got out his old favorite razor with the straight edge.

Maybe he's feeling nostalgic this morning.

__

    Don't worry, 'soka. I've seen this kind of thing before. Two days tops, I guarantee you. It'll be a piece of cake.


End file.
